Crazy Ceasefires
by LexiLopezi
Summary: And other mercenary madness.
1. This Chapter Sucks

**Crazy Ceasefires**

_A/N: Since I decided I haven't been neglecting enough stories, here's something else for me to start then shove in a corner and leave to rot. The Sandvich stealing was based off of my science tuition teacher's army training. He was being fake interrogated, and stole a sandwich from the interrogators because he'd been in the jungle with little food and water. He's slightly crazy. But awesome. Drawing in the dirt was inspired by How To Train Your Dragon._

* * *

Spy scowled at the live security camera feed from the base's cellar turned interrogation room. The irritating enemy Scout was proving to be a bit more… stubborn… than he had expected. He'd endured the cellar for no food and little water for three days, being yelled at by Soldier and several smacks upside the head with Shovel, then Pyro staring at him for an hour. And after that they'd sent in their own Scout to annoy him to death. They ended up talking about the Sox. Their Scout was now bound and gagged in the corner of the interrogation room. They had even gotten Medic as a last resort. The crazy German pulled out some teeth, drew some blood and went back to his experiments.

They'd done the Bad Cop routine. Now for the Good Cop.

If this went well, they would know where their Intelligence was being kept. If not, Heavy was going to tear him limb from limb.

Engineer pushed the cellar door open, one hand balancing a Sandvich on a plate, the other holding a can of BONK!. Soldier had taken it upon himself to stand guard over their prisoner, and had his shotgun trained on the boy at all times. Pretty much redundant at this point. The Scout's head hung low, possibly concussed. Scratches and bruises marked his arms, and blood leaked out of the corner of his mouth. His clothes and hand wraps were tattered and splashed with blood, and an impressive shiner was forming on his left eye.

The Texan set the plate and can on an old table just out of Scout's reach. Scout's head shot up at the dull thunk of metal hitting wood, zeroing in on the Sandvich. He'd f*cking kill for something to eat. He could almost hear it taunting him.

_Just me, dumbass. Y'know, Conscience. The one who told you NOT to take that Sandvich bait for the snare trap?_

**Shut up.**

_No._

**I hate you.**

_Thanks._

A Southern drawl broke into his little internal debate.

"Now see here boy. Me and the fellas, we just wanna know somethin'. A little somethin', and we let you free. Hell, I'll even throw in this Sandvich and that sugar radiation crap you rabbits like so much. I ain't no psychiatrist, but it sounds pretty good to me." The Engineer leaned forward, Sandvich in hand. "So where's your Intel?" He made the mistake of blinking.

The Sandvich was snatched from his hand. Scout stuffed it into his mouth and chewed, a triumphant smirk on his face, which was soon reduced to a fine red mist, courtesy of the resident crazy military guy. Their Scout was laughing so hard behind the gag, he'd probably cough up a lung.

An enraged bellow echoed throughout their base. Apparently Heavy had been watching from the cellar doorway. Spy decided it was a very good time to _run the crap away_.

"MY SANDVICH! LEETLE SPY IS _DEAD_."

* * *

A little known fact about Pyro. It liked drawing. Lots. Many a time after battle, it would go to the back of the base at Teufort to draw. Sand drifting in from the desert, coupled with the fact that the ground at Teufort was dry as a bone, made the perfect drawing board. Occasionally it would find other drawings that were not its own, but they looked nice.

Wind and rain eventually cleared the ground, erasing all marks. Pyro would be sad, but there was a whole clean slate to start over with. It could sit there until the stars came out to watch, drawing squiggles or elaborate designs. Animals, plants, people, random things. It had to be careful not to step on the lines though.

Once it woke up early and decided to watch the sunrise from its secret drawing spot. Nothing like a nice sunrise setting the skies alight with orange fire, to cheer up a Pyro. Then it found something rather threatening to its privacy.

_An intruder_.

It had its fireaxe out and ready to chop something (hint, not trees), when it noticed the intruder was their own Scout, idly scratching at an empty patch of earth with a stick. The Bostonian started at the sight of his only friend on the base and one of the few people who would put up with him for more than ten minutes.

"Oh, hey Py. You da mystery artist? I come out heah sometimes aftah my mornin' run, an' dere's all dis awesome doodles an' crap. Sometimes I add stuff." He flapped a hand at a picture of eight boys and a pretty lady.

"Mmhmm. Myie drrrd drrrse." It gestured to a particularly hypnotic spiral shape.

"Nice. Me an' my brothas di'int have much money when I was a tyke, no camera, sose we drew shit instead. Ma got me dis blank book when I got dis job, said ta draw anythin' int'restin' an' mail it back home." Scout rambled on, all the while creating a rabbit, a cat, a dragon. Then a rabbit-cat-dragon. Pyro sat next to him and sketched a chicken-dragon, mmphing softly to itself. Dragons came to life in the small patch of dirt and dust. Snake-porcupine-dragon. Two-headed dragon. Fish-turtle-dragon.

Then Soldier came stomping in.

"_WHAT_ ARE YOU TWO SISSIES DOING MISSING OUT ON MORNING TRAINING. ARE YOU TWO SLACKING?! WHY I OUGHTA-"

Mid-rant, Soldier had stepped on a line.

Pyro stared at it sadly. A sound drifted out of its filter, sounding much like "Meep". Scout stared at the offending mark on their hard work and stiffened, emitting a feral growl.

"Dat ain't a bootprint. Dat's a fancy shoeprint."

"**Sprrrh**."

_Fwick-fwick-fwoosh_.

The enemy Spy went down screaming. More accurately, screaming and on fire.

Pyro didn't like it when people stepped on the lines.

"So… uh… wanna go grab breakfast?"

"Brrrcrn! Rrrnd trrrrst!" Pyro ran as fast as it could back to the base. Bacon is tasty.

Scout added one last line, then got up to follow his buddy Pyro and the smell of bacon.

_And beneath the earth, the dragons sleepeth._

* * *

Soldier hated maggots. No one really knew why but Soldier himself.

It's not like he'd watched them slowly eat the bodies of his dead army regiment after a failed attack or anything. They hadn't crawled out of the corpses' nostrils and empty eye sockets when he tried to move them back to base camp for a proper funeral. The bloodied skulls hadn't stared at him while white, squidgy blobs wormed around inside.

_This is all your fault…_

Dead men couldn't talk, but Soldier hadn't sworn they did.

And all the while the maggots didn't mock him.

None of that happened, at least, that's what he thinks.

But sometimes, there are some nights he can't help but remember.


	2. What Is Music?

**Crazy Ceasefires**

To Pyro, music was the sounds of fire. The dry crackle of wood burning, the popping of sparks adding a staccato beat. Nothing could match up to fire, but a good guitar riff came close. Pyro had an electric guitar it played sometimes, usually during ceasefires. Occasionally, Engineer would join in on his guitar, or Scout with his harmonica. Their playing wasn't very good, but to Pyro, it sounded like a choir of angels.

Pyro, don't drink the yellow stuff in the fridge, it's not lemonade.

...

To Soldier, music was the sound of battle. Nothing like the scream of a bugle at five in the morning, or the wet scrunching sound of his shovel being embedded in a skull. Explosions were a drumbeat to his marching, gunshots his lullaby. A symphony of death.

...

To Medic, music was the cooing of his doves. It meant they were alright, fed, alive, safe. It also was a backdrop to his violin. He liked his violin. It reminded him of the Oper am Rhein in Duisburg. He had set up a small medical practice there before joining the Mann Wars, and had made it a point to attend at least once a month. His brother had been a cello player in the orchestra before falling prey to cancer two years prior to his employment.

He stopped going to the opera house.

...

To Heavy, music was the sound of Sasha. She purred when he spun her, and roared when she spat fire and metal, accompanied by the gentle hum of his comrade's medigun. Sasha would only stop singing when his heart stopped beating, and even that would not last for more than fifteen minutes. Then he would charge out again, and Sasha would resume her song.

...

Demoman had always liked the sound of bagpipes. His adoptive father used to play one in the local tavern on weekends. He liked the tavern. He used to sit in a corner and listen to his father play, along with two or three other regulars who'd formed a sort of band, albeit slightly out of tune. He'd be borne by the battle tunes to a land of princes and dragons, unaware of the dirty looks thrown his way, just for being a different color. Later on he'd notice, and he'd know why, but for now he was blissfully ignorant.

...

For Sniper, music was the sound of the Outback. No noisy humans cluttering up the place, only the rustle of grass, and the wind in the trees. At night you could see the stars much clearer than in the city, unsmothered by smog. Just him and his van, and the animals wanting to eat his face. Fun.

...

For Scout, music was his Ma's singing. They had an old radio in the kitchen, an ancient, battered piece of metal that resembled a turtle for some reason. He'd sit at the table after his brothers had gone to school and hum along to Elvis with his Ma, sneaking bits of batter and hunting for fallen chocolate chips under the table, with the scent of baking cookies wafting around the room.

...

Engineer liked the sound of horses. The clipping clopping of hooves, the gentle whuffing of breath. He used to spend hours in the stables listening to snorts and whinnies, only leaving for mealtimes. Old man Jessup never believed his stories about being able to talk to horses, but he did let young Engie help with the feed bags and mucking out the stalls. Engie did it all. Anything to be with the horses.

...

Spy? Who knows?

* * *

"Scout, you do realize zat is 'aggis, right?"

Scout paused in the middle of inhaling his food. "So? It's food."

Spy smirked. "'Aggis is pudding made with a sheep's 'eart, liver and lungs, oatmeal, onions, suet, salt, spices, and cooked in a sheep's stomach.

Sniper, Engineer and Pyro simultaneously shoved their plates away in varying degrees of disgust.

"Yeah, you ain't tasted gross until ya tried my aunt's mung bean an' squid ink surprise. Ma always had ta work, sose she got my aunt ta look aftah me an' my brothahs. She liked ta experiment on us or some shit." Scout looked slightly greenish at the memory of it. "Man, that was nasty. Almost as bad as her anchovy licorice cookies wit' asparagus icing."

Suffice to say, they had lost their appetites. Spy looked ready to cry at this insult to the culinary arts.

"She died last year. Poisoned herself. Used the wrong mushrooms."

"How are you still alive, son?" Engie scratched his helmet in amazement.

Scout shrugged. "Eh, just lucky I guess."

* * *

Demoman peered at the grey ceiling with his good eye. Technically, it's his only eye, but it's also his good eye, aye? That make sense? No? Good.

"Where… where am I?" He felt woozy. Why was there an icicle in his face? "Wha' happened?"

"Yer at Coldfront, mate. Sort of." Sniper's voice cut through his drunken haze. And boy did he sound pissed (see what I did there). "You and Soldier got drunk, and he thought it was a _great_ idea to shoot us out of a bloody cannon from the top of the base. We don't have our gear, except moi knoife, yer bottle, and whatever the Scout's got. He won't shut up. Oi hate you."

Sure enough, the Bostonian's loud voice echoed throughout the small cave they had apparently crashlanded in. Demo's headache worsened with each syllable. Ugh, hangovers. Scout was able to talk even with his tongue stuck to an icicle. Medic might have found it interesting. Sniper was too annoyed to care.

"Tho wheah da fud ah we anyway? Juth lookth like thome kinda cave with dad thatue. Like thome thorta Indiana Joneth thit," Scout chattered, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth. Sniper allowed himself a moment of apathy before using his kukri to hack away a small chunk of ice from the main icicle, which soon melted on Scout's tongue.

"There. Don't lick the ice again, or-"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" Demo, having finally realized what being stuck in a cave meant, was having himself a wee panic attack.

"Wot is it?" Sniper tensed, fingers tightening on his kukri's handle. His eyes searched the pretty much barren cave for any sign of danger. Other than the weird statue.

"AH'M OUTTA SCRUMPEH!"

"You've gotta be kiddin' me."

"No Scrumpeh is nothin' ta kid aboot! Tha', and Scoot jus' activated th' golem." Demoman pointed a slightly wonky finger at the statue, more of a crude collection of rocks in a vaguely humanoid arrangement than anything else.

Scout slowly backed away. "Uh… fellas? Rocks ain't supposed to glow like dat, right?"

It stood up in a screech of stone on stone. Red light flared in its hollow eye sockets and in carved lines over its body. Broadly built, its head scraped some low hanging stalactites, stone dust raining down. It moved deceptively quickly despite its large mass, backhanding Scout. He flew across the cave and hit the wall with a sickening crunch. The boy slid to the ground, leaving a bloody smear in his wake. It turned and charged at Demoman and Sniper.

_Thud thud thud._

It stomped closer. And closer. Demo waved his empty Scrumpy bottle at it. Great idea Demo.

"You get the rock, Oi'll get Scout, roight?" Sniper glanced at Demo.

"Right." Demo nodded once, determination glinting in his eye. "FRAEDOOOOOOOM!" The golem roared. He lunged forward… missed the golem by a mile and faceplanted. Added side effect; the golem mistimed its punch and overbalanced, toppling to the ground. Thank you physics.

"…Ah meant tae do that."

Then he noticed what the golem was _guarding_.

Y'see, lotsa years ago, there were these magicians that lived in the desert, and they made hugeass golems out of rocks and clay and metal to guard priceless treasures in secret locations all around the world. Then they died. The secret places are still there, along with their guardians, but it takes a lot of research to find one. Or just shove yourself in a cannon and fire it from the top of the base. You pick.

Light glinted on the ornate brass handle, the silver blade speckled with blood. A Persian scimitar.

Then the golem grabbed his ankle.

(Meanwhile)

Scout groaned and clutched his shoulder.

"Ow crap ow shit fuck sonuva-"

Sniper kept a wary eye on the golem as he knelt next to Scout. "Anything broken?"

Scout spat out a shard of tooth. "Arm. Hurts like shit." He'd been fighting long enough to know that only "needs hospitalization" wounds were worth mentioning, otherwise he got a smack upside the head with a gun butt and was told to "stop being a baby". "Maybe a coupla' ribs. You look all blurry an' crap." He staggered to his feet.

A blur of red and black skidded to a halt beside them.

"Noice of you to join the party. Whot weapons d'we have? I got moi kukri."

"Ah've got… this bottle…"

"I gotta bat."

"…We're screwed." Ever the optimist, Sniper?

"Och, wha' aboot that beauty?"

The golem circled protectively around the scimitar, warily eyeing the trio. It grabbed a stalactite and hurled it at them, pointy painful end aimed straight at Sniper. They threw themselves in different directions. Scout's baseball bat lay on the floor next to him; he snatched it and ran at the golem, hurling obscenities at it that would have gotten a mouth full of soap from his ma. Sniper prowled behind the golem and attacked its knees. Chunks of golem were flew with each swing of his blade.

"Hang on… this ain't stone, mates! It's clay!" Sniper hacked away with renewed vigor, while Scout doublejumped onto the golem's head and stuck his fingers into its eye sockets. Sniper tightened his fingers around the kukri's hilt in preparation for another swing. Then his face was introduced to a clay foot travelling at Mach 11. He fell backwards clutching his face. A shard of orange glass was embedded in his cheek, having missed his eye by centimeters. Blood streamed from the cut and his broken nose.

The golem peeled Scout from its head and gave him an '_R U srs'_ look. He went 'eh fuck it' and smacked it right in its big ugly face.

It screamed a scream of rusted hinges and fell to its knees, the silver tip of a blade barely poking out of its chest. The magical light faded, its eyes the last to go out. Soon it resembled nothing more than a bunch of rocks. Actually, scratch that, it looked like a turd.

Demoman pulled the sword from its back, the blade sliding out smoothly with a metallic rasp. "I'm keeping this. Let's all have a drink to celebrate, aye?"

Scout crawled out from under a rocky arm turd. "Eh… how d'we get out?"

"Weeeell…"

_Medic folded his arms. "Are you sure zhat is _exactly_ vhat happened?" He quirked an eyebrow at the fairly beat up trio._

"_Aye. I even have the sword tae prove it!" Demoman slurred, already quite spectacularly blootered._

_Medic pinched the bridge of his nose, magically foreseeing the impending headache he was about to have. _

"_Herr Demoman, zhat is a carrot."_

* * *

The last thing he saw was a glowing rocket flying right at him, right before he exploded magnificently in a spray of blood and squishy inside bits. There was pain, then there was nothing, and then he was here. The first thing he noticed was the quiet. Scout didn't like quiet. It made him twitchy, on edge. It reminded him of all those times his brothers had locked him in the closet. The second thing he noticed was the emptiness. Everything was grey, ground indistinguishable from sky.

He couldn't hear anything, not even his own heartbeat. He realized didn't have one.

"Da shit is dis place?"

"Firs' time in Respawn, ankleboiter?"

Scout jumped, or rather, spasmed in place. He swiveled his head to stare at a thankfully familiar Australian floating next to him.

"Snipes!"

"You just arroived yesterday, got yer briefing, yeah?" The Australian adjusted his shades, their orange tint somehow duller, faded. " This is where we go between dying and Respawning. No heaven, no hell. Just after."

Scout found himself floating in a new direction. A cord of electricity wrapped itself around his torso.

"Looks like yer fifteen minutes are up, mate."

Scout was gradually aware of a thumping in his chest. His heartbeat. It pounded a rhythm against his ribcage, louder and louder. The cord wound tighter and tighter. The grey world rumbled, groaned, a great beast awakening from slumber. A white crack opened, and through it he could hear screams. There was the humming of machinery in his ears.

The cord pulled him towards the crack that sounded of screams and felt like blood.

"Nonononono I ain't goin' in there!" He clawed at air, trying to gain any purchase in a world of nothing. "Snipes, HELP!"

"See you in a few."

Then he was dragged back into a world of screams and blood, and the machine would never let them leave.

* * *

_A/N: Strangely enough,watching Amnesia: The Great Work gave me motivation for the golem fight scene. I will have trouble sleeping tonight .I should write more stuff that focuses on/includes classes other than Scout and Pyro. Meh, next chapter. Too sleepy…_


End file.
